The Coming Flood
by LuxaLucifer
Summary: Two women stand as the funeral procession of everyone they've ever known rolls by and they hold hands. The Valar have much to pay for. Modern AU dystopia.
1. The Coming Flood

Written for the 10th anniversary of the SWG using the prompts dystopia, knowledge, and Amarië, I created this strange modern AU world where the Valar are the bad guys and very different things happened when Fëanor tried to leave Valinor. Some Amarië/Elenwë as an added bonus.

* * *

She did not put on shoes before she stepped out her front door. The sky was dark, the clouds bloated with rain as the downpour continued. The raindrops came down so fast and thick that they hurt as they hit Amarië's arms and legs. The water soaked her dress and soon her hair was dripping, her eyes fluttering shut for seconds at a time as she braved the skies. She needed to see it for herself. She needed to witness this; nothing would stop her from doing this one thing.

"I didn't know if you would come."

The words were spoken so softly Amarië had to strain to hear them.

"Elenwë," she said, the word choking out of her throat. "Are we the only ones?"

"The rest are in the procession," she said. "That, or the rain has driven them in."

"I don't think it's the rain," Amarië said softly. It wasn't like there were many left.

They held hands as they walked to the road. They had found comfort in each other in the long years of nothing but empty houses. At first waking up with another in her bed was all she wanted, but things had changed. She could not lose Elenwë the way she had lost her first other half.

The rain splashed with every step, running down the path and into the drains on the side of the road, curving around her feet with grace only to disappear into the sewers. Amarië's fingers gripped Elenwë's palm tightly as they approached the side of the street.

"They've confirmed his death?" asked Elenwë. Amarië wondered if she spoke so quietly all the time because she wanted to or she was afraid _they_ would hear.

The battles had gone on for so long. The Host of Fëanor had never made it off their little isle of _paradise._ Now they knew none of them ever would, not with the Valar crushing any attempt into fine dust.

"He died early," she said flatly. "Bravely. He fought many hounds of Oromë in single combat. Findaráto will be remembered."

"He escaped the worst of it, then," Elenwë replied, eyes trained on the entrance to their street, the looming mansions their only company. The great empty marble buildings only served to remind them of what they had lost when Fëanor had rebelled and the Valar had revealed themselves.

"I'm sorry," said Amarië, because what else could you say to someone whose husband and daughter had not escaped the worst of it?

Elenwë looked like she was going to say something, her mouth parted as she hesitated, when the horns blew. The procession was beginning.

The first black car to turn onto their street was Eönwë's. One of his hands was on the wheel, one on the horn he had grown so skilled in. Tulkas strode next to him, eyes roving, fists clenched. There was no merriment on his ruddy cheeks, no laughter, only a quiet fury. He was not here to mourn.

Following Eönwë's car were the hearses. Dozens of them, all packed into a single line as Eönwë led them. Amarië watched, face expressionless, and wondered which of the coffins held Findaráto's mangled corpse within.

"Why did he have to do it?" she whispered, a warm wind failing to blow her sodden dress in even the smallest way. "Why did Fëanor have to make all the good in the world go away?"

"He didn't do it," came the reply. "All he wanted to do is leave. The ugliness in this world did not come from him."

"If he hadn't tried to leave, we would still think the world of _them_ ," she said. "We would live in peace and things would be okay."

"It is not that he tried to leave," said Elenwë. "It is that they tried to stop him."

Amarië didn't respond. Elenwë was right, even if her chest ached.

Elenwë had tried to fight in the beginning, had stockpiled as many weapons as her husband, had said her goodbyes in the night like so many. She had been nearly killed (shot in the chest, her clothes stained with so much blood Amarië had thought there was no hope) in the first fight, and it was Amarië who had nursed her back to health, hid any evidence of her involvement. And when she had recovered, there was nothing left.

So many of these corpses, these people they had once known and loved and laughed with, had all died years ago now, why force a procession on them? Why drag their bodies into coffins as though the Valar respected the fallen?

They stood and watched for hours, the rain never letting up for a moment, and she had her answer. There was a break in the identical hearses, of body after body of people she had known and loved and mourned. She heard Elenwë inhale sharply when she saw it.

 _It_ was a badly altered parade float, hastily draped with black sheets and being pulled by Nessa in a muted gray truck (Nessa no longer danced, not ever, and Amarië would wonder at that if she cared). But it was not the driver or the float that drew her interest, it was the people standing on it.

"Survivors," said Elenwë, voice cracking halfway through the word. She reached out and gripped Amarië's forearm so tightly the blood flow would be cut off soon.

They were at the other end of the street. They did not run to meet the float, but waited, eyes trained on the two figures. If it were Artanis she didn't know what she would do (they'd said she'd escaped, she'd made it out when so few had, fire in her eyes after the death of a man she'd loved).

It wasn't Artanis.

"Sing," came a command from out of sight, and one of the figures lifted their bowed head and began to belt out a haunting tune, their lungs powerful enough that they drowned out the rain. The sound chilled Amarië more than any storm clouds ever could. She knew that voice, had been to every concert he'd ever performed, had cheered and applauded with everyone else at the genius of the second son of Fëanor.

"Oh, Macalaurë," she murmured. "What have they done to you?"

He sang of his pain, of the loss of his brothers, of running and hiding for decades in derelict buildings and shootouts in the wild. He sang of betrayal and loss and fear, of huddling in the cold from the ones you'd thought to be your protectors, of the sin of being a Noldo in dark days. It was his masterpiece, she knew, and that hurt.

The procession was now close enough that they could see the other Elf on the float. He was kneeling, eyes trained on the ground. She could see the matted red hair even from a distance.

"No," Elenwë whispered. "Have they no kindness? Was it all a lie? Always?"

They had captured Maitimo early on, plastering posters of his torments around the cities to remind them why they should never attempt a rebellion; it backfired on them when he was saved by poor, valiant Findekáno (he had paid dearly for that action, Amarië knew). Months of propaganda rendered useless, or worse, showing those not fighting that there was hope.

As Amarië watched Maitimo struggling against the chains with broken keening cries, she knew that that was not true. There was no hope.

The float was nearing them now. Macalaurë was still singing, wasting no energy by looking over at them. Maitimo raised his gaze to meet their eyes. Their minds connected, if only for a moment, and the overwhelming pain she met there threatened to topple her. It was as if his very core was screaming for mercy.

He said something, and while they were too far to hear what he said, they could read his lips. Please, he begged, his faced scarred, hand missing, chains chafing. Please, help us.

He looked away then. Amarië lifted a shaking hand to her face to cover her mouth only to find her face streaked with tears. He needed them. They both needed Amarië and Elenwë, the last two, the watchers, the mourners of a fallen people (not fallen but crushed under an unforgiving heel).

The float was soon out of sight. Macalaurë's haunting song continued and her tears kept falling.

The song only stopped when the head of the Valar appeared. Amarië's hand found Elenwë's and they gripped each other in fear, Amarië's heart racing.

Manwë still wore the blues and grays of the winds, still carried his scepter, but he no longer walked with his wife. When Varda had rebelled her husband of all eternity had given her the kindness of a private execution.

His grey eyes watched them as he led the back of the procession, eagles screeching as they circled him from far above. Her eyes were drawn to the white crown he wore, the Silmarils shining from three perfectly carved slots as though they were meant to sit on that head. He did not speak a word to them as he passed, no words of praise or hate, nothing, leaving behind a sense of unease and the sight of the great gems burned into their minds.

Elenwë turned Amarië's head towards her, wiping the tears off her face.

"It's raining," she whispered. "There's no point."

Elenwë leaned down and pressed her lips to Amarië's. It was familiar. It hurt. It was hard to turn away from the street, but they did it.

"We have to help them," said Amarië.

"And how do we do that?" said Elenwë, who sounded so tired, as if she knew the inevitable was finally here, like she could see her own death in her future. Perhaps she could.

They walked towards the mansion they pretended they didn't share and Amarië said in a whisper (but it didn't feel like one, it felt like she was screaming it to the clouded sky), "We find Moringotto."

The rain didn't stop for days, but that was okay. Perhaps the coming flood would wash the Valars' sins away.


	2. A Trickle of Hope

I wrote this a while ago and keep forgetting to post it. This is a sequel to the first story in this chapter, which is why I'm posting it as thus, but while it's a world I really like exploring and has a lot left to be done, I don't know if I'll ever come back to it, so I'm marking it as complete.

* * *

They ease the boat into the water gently, Amarië looking over at Elenwë with a new kind of admiration. The woman's dark hair was pulled into a tight bun, retired and well-hidden guns strapped to her waist, dressed in a blouse still stained with blood from the last time she had worn it and black riding pants. Her eyes are narrowed in determination as the boat creates countless ripples in the water, and Amarië remembers herself and pushes with her.

The swan ship is still as beautiful as the day it was crafted, back when they could trust the Teleri, back when the Teleri could trust them. Amarië is not proud of the thievery, but they must leave the island somehow, and the last time a Noldor asked a Teleri for ships there was bloodshed.

"We're doing this," whispers Elenwe. "We're going to sail away." And never come back are the words on the tip of her tongue, but she can't bring herself to say it. Elenwë has never been one to lie. Amarië climbs into the boat and waits for the other woman, stretching her arm out to help pull her up.

The swan ship is too big for them, and when she is on it she wonders how they're ever going to manage taking care of it.

"Don't worry," says Elenwë. "It's Teleri made. It practically takes care of itself."

Her words prove true as she takes control of the steering, standing on the prow looking regal and proud and strong, not at all like Amarië feels, because they have just _stolen a swan ship_ , the kind of action that means you will no longer be allowed to live in a pretty mansion on an empty street, your fate changed in warped tapestry (rumored to be made with chained and bloodied fingers, but since no one has seen her in yeas who can say) in Mandos' halls. Amarië fears that future, and urges Elenwë to steer the ship faster.

They move through dark waters in silence, the waves parting for them as they urge the boat forward. Amarië stands, pacing the ship, sliding her shoes off because the cold surface of the perfect wood feels better and more right against her soles than her tight warm boots. She peers beneath deck and wishes she hadn't. This was one of the ships that Fëanor had almost may it out of the bay with. She leans down, wondering if her grasping fingers will brush against what she is looking for or if the dim glow is only her imagination. Her breath shoots out in relief when her hand hits a lantern. Fëanor really did make it here.

She shakes it alive and lets the bright glow illuminate the room. There are bloodstains on every wall, but no bodies. She does not know every detail about the slaughter that happened when the Fëanorians tried to leave (they swore an Oath, she thinks, or did they? She can never remember), but she does know that when the Fëanorians arrived at the shore they never even made it to the Teleri before the doom of Mandos came upon them and they fell beneath Tulkas's mighty fists. Some rumors said the Teleri had not all been on the side of the Valar, but that some had fallen with Fëanor's people in their attempt to flee. She wonders if any of the handprints on the wall belong to them.

You are always free to go, said the Valar when they thought no one would ever try. Amarië wishes Fëanor never had. Now the Valar do not even pretend.

She walks further into the hold, wondering what's in the crates stacked in the center. There is dust in the air here, enough to coat her throat when she breathes. She pulls the lid off a crate and finds that it is filled with ammo, enough to supply the guns they have smuggled away for a long time. She pulls off another lid and finds more ammo. The third reveals dried food, likely still good. She sees something crumbled between two packages of food and pulls out a creased and yellowed sheet of paper. She angles the lamp over it so she can read it.

It is a propaganda poster, one of the ones of Maitimo. He is tied to a whipping post, blood dripping from his gored back in rivulets. He is so thin she can see every rib, and his shaved head is bowed in shame. She has seen the image before; they all have. A single word adorns the bottom of the page- Surrender.

There is more though. She looks down and sees that someone has written on the page in red ink. _We'll find you, brother. We'll get you back._

She drops the paper, hands shaking. "Elenwë!" she calls, her voice cracking as she raises it. "Elenwë, please!"

Elenwë appears at the door to the hold, silhouetted by the night sky, the stars crackling far, far above them. "I can't leave the steering long," she says. "What's wrong?"

"The Fëanorians were here, she says," reaching down and picking up the crumpled page. "They must have used the ship as a hideout before- before…"

"Yes," says Elenwë, rubbing a thumb over the red ink. "I picked this boat it was closest to the water. They must have done the same, hiding where no one would think to look."

Amarië thinks of the bloody handprints on the wall. She reaches for Elenwë, dropping the lantern as she stumbles for her. Elenwë catches her. She always does. They walk back up together, and Amarië's foot has hardly reached the last step when the ship begins to tip.

"What's going on?" she yells, fear thrumming in her veins, images of Maitimo's torture flashing in front of her, of the gunshots in the past, the blood-rain that had washed over Tiron the night of the final battle. She stands her ground, gripping Elenwë's hand, but it's not enough, and she reaches for her, pressing their lips together in an unquenchable impulse spurned by terror. It feels like her first act as a free woman. It feels like her last.

Waves crash over the ship, and they topple back into the side, gripping the smooth railings with iron fury. A figure raises from the water, a majestic, terrible figure crowned with seaweed and adorned with shells, his beard the color of the ocean floor, his eyes the sharp flint of jutting rocks. He is a figure of nightmare, but not Amarië's, and she lets out a cry of joy.

"I am sorry to frighten you," says the figure, voice so much softer than you would think. "This is no longer a world of gentleness; I have forgotten it."

"We do not need it," says Elenwë. "Ulmo, what do you ask of us?"

The sea god disappeared long ago, sinking into the deepest waters when the rebellions started. Amarië long worried that he had forsaken them for letting their factories drip oil into his seas, but the Valar have not changed that in their reign, and here he is.

"This was supposed to be different," he says, his eyes focused beyond them. "I was supposed to warn different people, help others. You two were not part of the tale."

"We are now," says Elenwë, drawing a gun and shooting a bullet into the air. Ulmo's gaze refocuses.

"You are impulsive," he says. "Rash."

"I have to be," she says, the poster of Maitimo crumpled in Amarië's fist. "We are all that's left. We fight for them too."

Ulmo almost smiles at that, a hint of humor under a dark sky. "I understand. But see that you do not end the way they did, trapped in the halls of Mandos or worse."

"We won't," says Amarië, standing back up. "What do you ask of us?"

"Nothing," he says. "Except that you succeed. I am here to warn you, and to help."

The words weigh on them heavily. Amarië feels tears prick at her eyes. Elenwë smiles.

"If you keep going this directions, their patrols will find you. Their mountains will block you."

"What should we do instead?" asks Elenwë.

He grins, and Amarië sees a fish swimming between his teeth. "I will cloak you. Let it not be said that Ulmo did not do his part in reclaiming what is lost. You do not need to do anything for now. Rest, because that will change."

The air around them thickens and the stars blink out one by one. The waters below them clear, and Amarië can see their depths when she leans over the railing. She watches fish swim leagues below them and looks back at Elenwë. "This is happening," she says."

"Yes," says Elenwë. "It is. Thank you, Ulmo. Thank you."

"Do not thank me," he says. "Win."

"That's dramatic," says Elenwë, smiling slightly.

He laughs, and it is booming and big and good to hear. "You're welcome," he says, amending his statement. "You will know when it is safe again. I do not think I will be able to return. Ossë hunts me even now. May whatever light there is be with you."

He sinks into the water so quickly that the ship is rocked again. Elenwë approaches the steering wheel only to discover that Ulmo has set the course.

"Well then," she says. "I suppose we do as he says and we relax."

It is hard with the ghosts of the rebellion beneath him, but they lay on the deck together, backs against the rail, and they hold each other, each praying to a maker they believe has abandoned them.


End file.
